


Kill Me, Kiss Me

by knees_of_bees



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Draco Malfoy Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Guns, Happy Ending, Healing, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Indian Harry Potter, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Soft Draco Malfoy, Suicidal Harry Potter, Suicidal Thoughts, Target Practice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:41:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22845760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knees_of_bees/pseuds/knees_of_bees
Summary: Harry teaches Draco how to shoot a gun.~Draco stepped closer, eyes back on Harry’s lovely mouth, now parted with shock.Harry’s carefree happiness had him on a high that made him forget every reason this was a bad idea.They were a breath away.“What are you doing?” shot Harry.Draco yanked back. “I...” He felt as though his bones were crumbling one by one.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 32
Kudos: 241





	Kill Me, Kiss Me

Gun metal seared his skin.

Memories of the Manor flitted like ghosts at the edge of his vision; ice in Aunt Bella’s eyes, bars through which he and Luna exchanged whispers, the cold weight of guilt.

And then warmth covered his fingers and a flutter brought him back into his own body.

“You have to hold it away from yourself, right about here,” Harry was explaining. “And cock it, pull back the… yeah, you’ve got it.”

Harry, who had forgiven him. Draco still hadn’t wrapped his mind around that.

Draco lowered the pistol, relaxing his grip just an inkling. “How’d you find this clearing, anyway?”

Harry breathed out a laugh. “Scared, Malfoy?”

“You wish.” Draco shot him a glance and immediately regretted it. Harry looked wild, hair even more tousled by the wind and light green eyes flashing in contrast with his dark skin. He filed the image away for later.

“‘Mione and I hid out here for a bit. During the war.” The humor was gone from his voice.

The words were out before Draco could convince himself he shouldn’t say them. “And you want to relive that?”

“No.”

Draco heard what he didn’t say. That there wasn’t a day he didn’t relive the war, whether he wanted to or not.

None of them could walk into the Great Hall without remembering the bodies.

And yet they’d come back for eighth year, a handful of them. Maybe they wanted closure. Maybe they would never get it.

Draco lifted the gun, aimed at the firewhisky bottle, and pulled the trigger.

The noise shook his whole body. Green light flashed in his mind, ribs rattling. A warm hand pressed against his back and he jerked away.

But it was a gun that his bony fingers trembled around, not a wand. Embarrassed, he looked up at the target. It was still there. Not even a scratch.

“You good?” Harry asked.

Draco set his shoulders back and lifted his chin. “Yes.” He raised the handgun again.

This time, he knew what to expect. The bang sent a jolt through his body but he paid it no mind, squinting instead at where the bottle had been. It was still there.

He felt Harry shift next to him, ready to step in, so he raised it again.

He’d been swallowing his stress, but now he let it rise in his throat like bile.

Shame curled around his wrists, snaked down his legs. Buzzing energy coursed through him as he thought of Harry’s voice lowering with sarcasm, Harry’s eyebrows knitting with concentration, Harry thinking he hid his sadness well. He remembered his father’s warning about lusting after boys, and emptiness raked his stomach.

The waves of emotion were heavy and harsh, and in the midst of them, he felt strangely at peace. His grip strengthened and he channeled everything toward the firewhiskey label.

The glass shattered.

“Not bad.” Harry raised an eyebrow and nearly smiled, but Draco shoved the gun at him forcefully.

“It’s a weapon,” Draco said coolly, trying to swallow his panic. When the glass shattered, he was reminded of the permanence of death, and he couldn’t pretend anymore that this was merely a piece of metal.

“I don’t think the glass bottle minded,” grinned Harry.

“It’s not any better than the killing curse,” he spat, irritated with the sarcasm.

“I’d argue that it’s a lot better,” said Harry lowly. He stepped toward him. “People die no matter what, but when it’s the killing curse? It’s intentional. You have to mean it.”

Harry’s breathing was shallow. “This, though? Harder to aim. The trigger’s small. Easy to bump. For all anyone knows, it could be an accident.”

Draco glanced down, breaking eye contact, and noticed the gun was facing Harry. Barrel lodged beneath his ribs, pointing up at his chest, finger hovering above the trigger.

Harry's finger moved closer, and closer, brushing the metal of the trigger.

Draco grabbed it and yanked it away. It skittered across dry leaves. “What the fuck, Potter?!”

“What, can’t take a joke?” Harry adjusted his jumper, not looking at Draco. “Let’s go back.” He grabbed his wrist and the world twisted, Draco’s insides wringing out like a wet towel.

~

They appeared just outside of Hogwarts grounds. Harry began walking back with purpose, and Draco hurried to match his stride.

He felt shaky. He wanted to yell at Potter, but he couldn’t make him close off, not after that.

“Why’d you show me how to…?” he tried to sound conversational. The question hovered between them. Harry said nothing.

“If you’re not― If you aren’t okay―“

Harry scoffed.

He tried again. “You can talk to me about it. About anything.” He cringed at his own desperate words.

“I’m fine,” Harry said.

“You’re not.”

“What, and you are?” Harry spun to face him. “You’re fine with the fact that you fought for the wrong side? You let Hermione get tortured? You watched as the kids you grew up with, your schoolmates, fought and died and you did shit. And that’s fine?”

The words hurt like hell, and flooded him with relief. They hadn’t talked about it—not really—and now Potter was speaking daggers into him, vocalizing Draco’s own self-loathing, and he deserved it. 

“We’re all fucked,” Potter concluded. “Don’t make such a big deal of it.” Just like that, his mask was back up. His shrug was casual, controlled.

“Yeah, we’re fucked up. And— And I have no right to be telling you how to— shit, I don’t even have the right to talk you.” 

Draco barreled on, unrehearsed and uncomfortable but desperate to make Potter understand.

“We’re here. Whether we like it or not, we’re here.“ Did Harry get it? He couldn’t go. He shouldn’t. 

He brushed Harry’s wrist, which got his attention. Their eyes locked.

“Don’t go,” thought Draco. He didn’t say it.

“I shouldn’t have said―“ started Harry.

“No,” interrupted Draco, “you should have.”

Harry looked at him cautiously. “I showed you because it’s something I do, and— it’s nice, being around you. You don’t pretend.”

“That’s all anybody does these days.”

“Yeah, well, not you. You may be an arse, but your real.”

Draco itched his nose, trying to conceal his flush. “You’re not half bad yourself. You―”

“Shut up, I’m not fishing.”

“No, you shut up, and let me say this. I’m not talking about saving the Wizarding World, we all know you’re a bloody hero, the headlines get old. I’m talking about… about giving me a chance, after I put you through hell for years. And putting up with the awestruck first years, and pretending you didn’t go through just as much trauma as―“

“Don’t give yourself that much credit.”

Draco’s gut plummeted. “What?”

“The Dark Lord himself was onto me, I couldn’t be all that bothered by a self-centered prat with sub-par bullying skills.”

Real laughter bubbled from Draco and caught him by surprise. “Potter,” he said condescendingly, though the effect was marred by giggles, “I went through that much effort to make your life miserable and that’s what you reduce me to?”

“Oh you were a wanker, don’t get me wrong, but you were also desperate for attention.”

“From you!” Draco’s laugh caught in his throat as he realized what he’d said.

Harry’s eyes widened for a millisecond, but then he shrugged. “Well, you have it now.”

They walked the grounds together, Draco’s heart stuttering with embarrassment and perhaps a twinge of hope.

~

“Where’d you get it?”

Draco had been itching to ask since Harry had shown him the gun, but it had seemed too rocky after yesterday’s trip to the clearing. 

Today, however, a calm settled between them. Perhaps their walk through the grounds, their conversation through dinner and dusk and into dark, had been cathartic.

Perhaps they were healing, just a little.

Then there was the matter of the warm, nervous buzzing in Draco’s chest whenever he was near Harry, but he was ignoring that.

They sat on the bleachers facing an empty Quidditch field and a cloudy sky. Harry was cleaning his gun.

He hummed in amusement at Draco’s question. Shrugged. “You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t.”

“Arthur Weasley lent it to me.”

“What?” That bumbling man would have been Draco’s last guess.

“Wanted to know how it works. I said I had no clue, but I’d figure it out.”

“But, isn’t that a muggle thing? You grew up with muggles, right?”

Harry snorted. “I grew up with soulless idiots, and not all muggles go around shooting things anyway.”

“Oh.” Draco had never known much about Harry Potter’s home life; he assumed they, too, had treated him like a savior. Maybe not.

“Would you hold this for me?” Harry held up the cleaning cloth.

Draco nearly made a quip about how he could just set it down on the bleachers or his lap, but he took the cloth from Harry.

Their hands brushed for the fifth time in two days, if you count apparating. Harry began re-assembling the gun.

Draco leaned closer, just to see how it worked. Harry angled toward him, just to give him a better view. Their knees bumped. Neither of them moved away.

“There,” mumbled Harry. He put out his hand for the cloth. Draco handed it to him, lingering for just a moment. Warm, calloused, dry.

“Do you fly? Anymore, I mean,” Draco asked.

Harry shook his head slightly, cocking an eyebrow at Draco.

“Would you like to?”

He knew it was a ridiculous question. The last time he’d been on a broom was in the Fiendfire, and Harry’s answer probably meant it was the same for him. Thinking of that fire — who he’d lost, how it was his fault — scorched his insides. 

But something about the wind up in the bleachers made him feel reckless. Something about Potter’s wild hair and fierce eyes and strong arms made him feel like he could do anything.

Potter nodded. “Sure.” Confusion and curiosity tinted his gaze and a smile quirked his lips.

~

Wind burns flushed Draco’s pale skin. His hair was a mess, he could feel it, but Harry’s was worse. He wanted to run his fingers through it.

Harry was grinning wildly as he slid off his broomstick. He looked taller than before.

“How do you feel?” Draco asked.

“Incredible. Forgot what that was like.”

“Me too,” breathed Draco, winded from flying and from Harry’s sudden proximity.

“It’s like the focus and feeling alive of shooting the pistol, but without all the other stuff.”

Draco wondered what Harry meant by the other stuff. Looming memories of war? The temptation to pull a trigger?

It didn’t matter, because right now, Harry had forgotten he wanted that. He was breathing heavily, radiating heat, buzzing with adrenaline right in front of Draco.

“What are you looking at?” Harry asked teasingly.

Draco’s eyes shot up from Harry’s mouth. “You’re smiling,” he said dumbly.

“You have that effect on me,” he replied in a mock-flirtatious voice. His eyes widened as he realized what he’d said.

Or perhaps it was because Draco had brushed their fingers together. That was six.

Draco stepped closer, eyes back on Harry’s lovely mouth, now parted with shock.

Harry’s carefree happiness had him on a high that made him forget every reason this was a bad idea.

They were a breath away.

“What are you doing?” shot Harry.

Draco yanked back. “I...” He felt as though his bones were crumbling one by one. 

A thousand expressions flashed across Harry’s face. It settled on nervous. The Chosen One looked nervous.

Harry glanced down at his hand where Draco’s had touched it. He looked back up at Draco, eyes skittering across his face, his hair, his lips.

He looked squarely at Draco and said “Do it again.”

“Piss off, Potter.” This was mockery. It must be.

But something vulnerable twinged in Harry’s eyes, and when he said it again, it came out breathy. “Do it again.”

So Draco stepped toward him. He didn’t know what Harry was asking for, or how this was supposed to play out.

But he swung his hand so it grazed Harry’s again, and Harry caught his fingers.

Harry brushed his thumb across the back of his hand tentatively, experimentally, and his eyes flickered to Draco’s mouth.

Draco leaned in, tilting his head, until they were a mere whisper away.

“What do you want, Potter?” he breathed. It was meant to sound like a challenge, but he was nearly shaking.

“This, I think.”

And Harry crashed their mouths together, running a hand through Draco’s hair.

It took Draco a moment to respond, frozen by shock, but he kissed back like the world was ending and he wrapped his arms around Harry.

He tried to memorize the slopes of his back. The coiled energy in his movements. The taste of his mouth, in case he never got any of this again.

His senses were overloaded with the intensity of it all. This was his Harry. Harry Potter. The boy he’d dreamed about all through school. The boy who forgave him, somehow, so he said. The boy with his hand on the trigger, here and alive as ever.

Stay alive, he thought.

“Stay,” he said, accidentally. It came out as a mumble against Harry’s mouth.

“On the Quidditch field?” Harry laughed, still pressed against him.

Embarrassment flared in Draco’s gut.

“I think we oughta take this somewhere else,” Harry said. “But for your information, Malfoy,” he reached for Draco’s hand and intertwined their fingers, “as weird as this is, and as fucked up as we are, I um, I kinda like this. I don’t plan on going anywhere.”

Draco sighed against Harry’s mouth and pressed a kiss to his lips, to his cheek, to his ear. He was an ocean of feeling, unable to meet Harry’s eyes, so he rested his chin on Harry’s shoulder and hugged him tight.

Harry hugged back.

The chilly air swept through the field and swirled around them, but they were a bundle of warmth, two bodies with aching chests and beating hearts, holding one another.

**Author's Note:**

> Yo, thank you for reading!!  
> I shot a gun for the first time with my not-quite-lover and ex-friend pretty recently, which is the inspiration for this. I did it in heels which was rad, but those things can kill which is not so rad.  
> Draco has feelings to the moon and back in this. I wrote more angst than usual, but I tried to balance it somewhat with the more uppity stuff.  
> A comment means the WORLD and a half. Lemme know what you think!  
> Much love, xxoxo


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